


Sunflower

by Starinlight



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One Direction Break Up, Pining Zayn, Post-Zayn One Direction, Sad, Zayn-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 19:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5260943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starinlight/pseuds/Starinlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, Zayn starts to cough sunflowers.</p><p> </p><p>///</p><p>Or the AU! where there's a type of disease that makes people throw up flowers when they suffer from one sided love, and Zayn is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunflower

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, I'm a K-Pop fan with a fascination towards tumblr, even though I don't know how to use one. And these days I was scrolling and found out a post explaining about this 'Hanahaki Disease' and boom! I had to write something about it.
> 
> Sorry if it's bad, I really need to get better at writing inner emotions and angst, and this is gonna be my guinea pig~
> 
> My mistakes are my own, please forgive me for them ^^

_cough_

 

Yellow.

 

Lively, cheerful yellow. Yellow of sunny days filled with laughter and honeyed tea. Yellow of hazy mornings, of lazy sunlight peeking through the horizon and velvety covers. Yellow of happy smiles and tender touches, of optimism and courage and creativity, of soft voices singing wordless songs under bright lights. Yellow who had a bad side; yellow of cowardice and egoism.

 

Ripe lemons yellow, gold yellow, butter yellow, bee yellow, happy face yellow, post-it yellow.

 

Yellow, yellow, yellow _._

 

And finally, yellow of sunflowers, beautiful and warm, constantly seeking for the sun. Sunflowers that mean adoration and dedication, pure thoughts and devoted love, whose petals feel like silk in his hands, that tremble so hard some of them fall, staining the placid blue covers with its startling color.

 

_cough_

 

 

**primary**

 

 

 

His throat hurts, but he can’t stop coughing, the sound crude and raw in the silent hotel room. Tears make their way from his eyes, passing fluidly across his cheeks and wetting his stubble, only to dangle mockingly on his jaw, and fall in the dark blue sheets, darker spots forming in the cool material. It has been like this for more time he cares to count, too bothered with processing his feelings and dealing with the pain.

 

c _ough cough_

 

Hanahaki Disease, how fucking awesome.

 

Zayn would laugh at his bad luck if he didn’t felt like spitting his lungs at any second. This thing, this disease, only proves how low he stepped, how pathetic he became on the course of five years; for it to appear after so long it’s somehow a welcome surprise, but yet unpleasant.

 

_cough cough_

 

Another series of coughs racks his whole body as it bends over itself, his hands curling around his lips, a dozen of bright yellow petals leaving an aftertaste of earth and sun and sorrow on his mouth as they spill, fresh and deadly. Zayn holds them against his chest, his grip so tight some of them get crushed, the clear color darkening slightly, identical to the way his tears darken the sheet covering the bed. They are the proof of his failure, his absolute wretchedness.

 

To have Hanahaki means to not be loved by the one that matters the most to the person. An illness caused by unrequired love, who consumes its victims slowly, making their lungs fill with roots and flowers; the roots that crush them, the flowers that crumble and come in form of petals through their mouths, suffocating and painful till the body can’t handle anymore, the roots squeezing the lugs to the point of asphyxiating the poor sick person to death. The cure, a surgery that together with the roots, also took away the feelings for the person; on rarer cases, the loved person reciprocating their love.

 

_cough cough_

 

It’s not romantic or beautifully tragic in the way some crappy authors write and girls fantasize about; it’s sick and awful, to feel the physical pain of your broken heart wrecking you from inside out. While most people choose to get rid of the flowers undergoing surgery, there are the ones whose love is too strong to let go. A curse, this disease, not a creepy way to show the limits – or lack thereof – love brought someone.

 

Unfortunately, Zayn’s one of these types of person; too coward to confess his real feelings, but too stubborn to forget them, preferring his death over a black space on his memories where his beloved used to be, his mind remembering the person with nothing but an strange detachment, unnatural and fake, or at least, this is the way the recently operated said they feel, on one of those dozens of programs that accompany cases of rare diseases, Hanahaki being the most popular, even if not that rare anymore.

 

He refuses to forget all the warm smiles, the light green eyes that shine with very simple gestures of affection, rough voice drawling syllables with thick accent. Lazy days of playing video games in the bus, eating pizza and cuddling on too-tight bunks, the smell of sweat and conditioner for curls and something different, like coconut but not that sweet overwhelming all others. Crazy days full of practicing and screaming girls and the urge to lit a fag soothed by long limbs curling around his waist, large hands caressing the sharp bones of his hips in circular motions.

 

Forgetting about Harry and all the fuzzy, soft emotions – the bad ones too, of days where he couldn’t manage the strength to get up, afraid of the surge of sensations, not admitting them not for himself or Allah, less so Harry – would hurt more than this cursed roots squeezing his lungs to death.

 

 _cough cough_  

 

 

 

**ripe lemons (sour)**

 

 

 

The Tour for the ‘Four’ album is painful and he almost gets caught several times. It’s hard to hold the coughs and the petals that come with them, Zayn spending more time than necessary inside bathrooms in general, spitting dozens of bright yellow at once. He has to stop smoking so much, the smoke generally irritating the captive lungs to the point of him coughing blood together with the sunflowers, the scarlet red making an ugly contrast with the pretty yellow.

 

Singing the high notes is equally hard; his throat burns and Zayn has to cough silently – lifting the microphone so the others won’t notice the sounds – against his hands, swallowing the sunflowers and feeling the tears fogging his eyes at the foul taste – blood and earth and sorrow – before continuing.

 

Perrie calls every day. She’s the only person in the whole world who knows, and she cries, begging for him to stop being so damn stubborn and just endure the surgery. He’s grateful for her, his broken heart taking comfort on her motherly one, sucking like a parasite all the care he can before… well, dying. There’s no other way to say the reality. He always denies though, explaining over and over again his reasons for not simply getting rid of his poisonous love. Perrie doesn’t understand, but she respects his decision; still, she tries.

 

He knows Lou suspects something is wrong with him; he feels her eyes glued on his back like a hawk’s, analyzing his actions and how he deals with food – which he doesn’t eat – fans – to whom he smiles strained – and the other One Direction members – he avoids Liam’s sharp eyes, Niall’s contact, Louis’ outings and Harry’s… entirety – and his appearance, whose he changes at every given opportunity.

 

Paul also suspects there’s something going on; the man stays by his side more frequently, and puts one comforting hand on his shoulder when no-one’s looking.

 

The fans, of course they notice. They can beat a FBI equip with their searching abilities, scare a SWAT team with their sharpness and make the best MI-6 agent spill their secrets to them due their ruthlessness. Some think he lost the will to sing, some think he just got too cocky to deal with ‘dirty mundane’ while others spit words of hate about his skin and religion. Few think Perrie is the one to blame – the engagement façade persisting – and a minority express their worry about his health.

 

_cough cough_

 

 

**gold (untouchable)**

 

 

 

Everyone has a limit, Zayn included.

 

The band is heading to the Asian part of the tour when he finally reaches it. He calls Simon and marks a meeting.

 

He’s the sole passenger on the first class – he excuses himself from the boys saying he needs to spend a week with his family –, and it’s perfect for him and his burning throat. The coughs are getting worse day by day, and he vomits twice, yellow petals and yellow bile and small green leafs. The flight attendants all appear desperate and pitying, one to the point of shedding tears at his feet, wiping his sweat covered brow delicately. For the rest of the flight, they treat him with the utmost care, sitting by his side and caring for his hurt being.

 

Impressive how people care. The girls swear secrecy, and wish him the best.

 

A van waits for him in the airport, and takes Zayn straight to Simon. The stoic men smiles upon seeing him, but the thin-lipped smile turns quickly into a concerned frown as he absorbs Zayn’s wrecked appearance – he lost good fifteen pounds, and his clothes hang from his body, similar to his hair, greasy and messy.

 

The boy doesn’t know where to start, and he doesn’t need to; a fit of coughs make their way through his throat before he has a grasp of them, and Simon watches horrified as beautiful yellow petals of sunflowers rain above his desk.

 

_cough. cough cough cough_

 

“ _Hanahaki”_ it’s all he whispers, running towards the boy with a glass of water. “ _Who…?”_

 

_“Harry”_

 

Simon doesn’t ask about it anymore, just what Zayn wants to do. He cries for hours – or minutes, but at this point, he can’t tell the difference – before asking – begging, pleading almost on his knees – to leave the band. The older man widens his eyes but keeps himself from protesting, accepting the request readily, not having the courage to deny a dying person their wish.

 

Oh, Zayn knows Simon knew about him never opting for the surgery; back on X-Factor days, he would say to the younger what he thought about him, about the way he carried himself made him think Zayn was an old soul, knowing and understanding the world beyond his years. Ironically, he doesn’t feel these supposed years of wisdom, instead, he feels like a baby without a mother to care for him, completely lost in a world to wide for him.

 

 

 

**butter (melt)**

 

 

When he delivers the news to the band, he receives different reactions.

 

Niall, by far, is the easiest to deal with, maybe because the boy is always so calm during big confrontations. The blonde Irish lad stares deep inside his eyes, baby blues searching, trying to find the reason why he took a drastic attitude suddenly, worry setting his brow in one tight line. It’s been a long time since his cheeks lost the constant pink tint like now, his whole complexion whitening to a translucent tone, sickly. As he opens his mouth to talk, someone else interrupts him.

 

Zayn feels the punch rather than sees it; Louis is quick on his feet and in his anger, he lets go of any inhibitions. It hits Zayn square on the face, and the younger of the two wobbles, balance briefly compromised by the impact. He uses one wall for leverage, and observes as Liam holds the oldest back, curses descending upon him like a waterfall, heavy and nonstop, engulfing his mind with guilt and regret. His partner in crime, his brother, it hurts to see him so angry, and Zayn wishes he could explain. He tastes blood, its metallic savor mingling with the earthy one that’s already engraved, burned into his taste buds.

 

Liam appears ten years older after this short space of time; his broad shoulders curve in a defeated arch, as if there’s an invisible weigh pushing them down, and even his puppy eyes seem sunken, slightly dazed; he’s got that look on his face that means he’s far away from the current situation, lost in past moments, evaluating them, scrutinizing each to find where he did wrong. A typical reaction coming from ‘Daddy Direction’, and like Louis’, it hurts Zayn to see his best friend so absolutely overwhelmed.

 

Harry is by far the worst, and while it hurt to look at the previous three, Zayn has to actually lean heavily against the wall, his legs threatening to give up at the sheer force of the green, moist stare. The youngest looks at him with eyes full of tears, betrayal clear as the brightest day accusing him, unsaid questions – _why are you doing this? We did something wrong?_ I _did something wrong? Are you tired of us? Of this? –_ and silent blaming _– this is not just your dream! We promised each other to be together forever, and if you’re being selfish, stop! Think about us, think about the fans! –_ coming and going so fast it’s hard to keep track. Zayn’s throat aches with the need to cough and his own eyes fill with tears, both from this need and the bone-deep, crushing heartbreak. Harry shouldn’t be able to throw him off balance with as much as a look, but then again, he’s _dying_ because of him.

 

He doesn’t try to explain, knowing that if he opens his mouth, he won’t be able to stop his coughs and consequently, his – _Harry’s,_ because he represents all of this, the adoration, dedication and pure thoughts – flowers too. Standing quietly, he hears as Louis’ voice raise in volume, curses becoming more obscene, broken promises and threats being thrown on his face with some detachment, focus only on Harry and Harry and Harry…

 

Which stays silent, crystalline tears flowing freely from his eyes, tracing reddening cheeks; he makes move to get closer to Zayn, and the latter actually squeaks, pressing his back flush against the wall, knees knocking together to maintain himself upright. He raises trembling hands in a signal to stop, and startled, the younger boy obeys, expression turning so damn exhausted Zayn wants to embrace him, soothe the tense lines in his brow and apologize repeatedly for ever causing him harm. Instead, he breathes deeply and puts on the indifferent – slightly cocky and defiant – front he practiced on the flight back; he swallows the sunflowers dry, the velvety petals hurting his raw throat and finally speaks.

 

Lies; lies so blatant the boys should start laughing at him and scolding him, saying something about what a bad liar he was. They never do anything as he says bullshit regarding wanting to be a normal boy – he isn’t stupid, he won’t ever be normal again; why they don’t notice?! – and stay more time with Perrie, marry her – he loves her, but not like this and they know – and how One Direction became far beyond what he could handle. He uses everything he can think of; he goes from paparazzi to hate comments, from the lack of time with his family to the fans.

 

And during all the time he spends telling lies, he stares at Harry’s green eyes, hoping his own will convey the truth. Begging for him to see his reasons behind the farce.

 

Harry never says anything, staring straight at him with eyes the same green of his sunflowers, unfocused and heartbreakingly sad.

 

 

 

**bee (fly away)**

 

 

 

When Zayn was 13, his older sister Doniya had her first heartbreak; a boy from her class liked one of her friends and not her. At 14, almost 15, she had cried in her room for hours, ignoring his, a young Waliyha’s and an even younger Safaa’s worried knocks.

 

She only appeared the next day, her once shiny, wavy and long hair up to her shoulders, some parts of it shorter than others, indicating she had done this with herself, and while mildly scandalized, his mother had explained to him later that normally girls who suffered from a broken heart changed their appearances so they could move on. At that time he thought it was a way too exaggerated form of turning the page, but admired Doniya’s courage all the same.

 

Nine years later, on a hotel room in Hong Kong, surrounded by the smell of fried chicken, beer and cigarettes, he spares his hair one last look before shaving it all, the soft buzzing sound a good-bye melody to the dark strands that fall on the sink, representing much more than the action itself; a good-bye from his old life, not for a new start, but for his downfall.

 

_cough_

 

Red-stained yellow falls to join the black.

 

He drops to the ground, picking his twelfth cigarette in one hour and some, smoke filling what space is left inside his lungs, immediately coughing at the effort, burnt yellow-and-red flying away as a sudden, nauseating spicy-sweet smelling wind carries them.

 

If it was this easy… To fly away, that is. He may have left One Direction – _Harry –_ behind, but the pain won’t diminish, continuing just as sharp as before, a bleeding hole on his chest and the numbness to everything that isn’t it. Zayn doesn’t feel like doing anything, choosing to rot in one hotel room on the other side of the world.

 

He hates love. Hates to be _in love_ and not having this feeling corresponded. Is as if his whole life is nothing but a lie; the happy glow of his parents’ love and the stories he read as a kid an illusion made to break him further, a mockery to his situation; is he undeserving? Had he wronged someone so much to be punished like this? He must have been really bad in his past life, a heartbreaker of the worst kind, to now pay for love with his own life.

 

_cough. cough cough_

 

His phone rings, music distorted by the distance; he doesn’t conjure enough strength to get up before it stop, but as soon as it stops, it starts again, louder.

 

The screen lights up with Doniya’s face.

 

So Perrie did carry her warning. Although reluctantly agreeing in staying quiet about his condition to her band mates and his’, she said she wouldn’t keep secret to his family, in case they asked her about the hell is going on.  

 

Breathing deeply, Zayn answers.

 

 

 

**happy face (deteriorate)**

 

 

Unsurprisingly, his mother cries, loud sobs of anguish as she hugs him close to her body, doing her best to shield him away from the world that slowly corrupted him – the ink in his arms, the everlasting smell of ashes, and the dim way his eyes shine; the yellow of heartbreak – to leave a shell of her previous bright baby boy.

 

Doniya cries too, but instead of trying to go for her brother, she turns to a greater force: Allah. Never the most dedicated of followers, she now prays and prays and prays, tears descending her eyes as she begs for Allah to not take Zayn away; he’s too young, too talented, he has so much to live, a potential he’ll never reach if he’s not in this Earth.

 

Waliyha does neither; she rages, and destroys every single piece of yellow in the house: from ripping her clothes to Safaa’s and Doniya’s and mom and dad’s, to breaking vases and old toys. She hates the color, and depending on her, it will never decorate the smallest place of their house again.

 

Safaa, young Safaa, can’t quite grasp the situation with all if its magnitude. To think her big brother is dying – her grandpa died too, and she was so _sad –_ because Harry – she used to like Harry, with curly hair and green eyes and bright personality; not anymore – won’t love him is so… unthinkable. Zayn is not the easiest person, he can be pushy and annoying and brooding, but he is also the gentlest, most caring person, and to not love him… Unthinkable.

 

Zayn acts as if nothing’s wrong. He tries joking around with Safaa – she gets that faraway look on her face – and talking to Waliyha – she glares at his direction before her eyes fill with tears. He pokes Doniya out of her stupor – the purple circles beneath her eyes seem to darken more, and she turns away to pray – and spends all the time he can with his mom, helping her – she always appears ready to cry yet again – and when he notices he has broken them in ways he can’t understand completely, he locks himself in his room. Maybe like this he’ll rot faster, without causing more harm to those he loves.

 

And Yaser sees his family deteriorating with sorrow and despair.

 

 

 

**post-it (remember and rip)**

 

 

He survives for more time than he imagined; by the end of July, he’s hopeful – not really – about learning to survive with the endless sunflowers and the squeezing roots in his lugs. The engagement with Perrie is over, because he refuses to let her suffer to any further extent for him and the fans and anti-fans still do their best to stalk him, learn all about his life. Always one to mingle well in the crowds, Zayn avoids them the best he can. By now, Ant and Danny know too, and the brothers try compelling him to take the surgery and end once for all the pain.

 

Which never fades or remains constant.

 

It grows.

 

_cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough_

 

Zayn’s disgusted with the fact he now can barely leave his room, too weak to walk towards the kitchen or the bathroom. He has to get help from his family and friends – who take turns to help him out – to do the simplest of tasks, being bathing or walking. He runs an eternal fever, face aflame with it and the effort of… living. Not exactly living, it’s surviving, a feeble attempt at that, since he’s become such a laughable creature, worthy of pity; he’s dropped another ten pounds, and looks positively skeletal, skin taut on top of weal bones, which pop at every given chance, hardly sustaining his weight.

 

And he remains torturing himself; Zayn watches all of One Direction’s concerts without him, eyes solely on Harry, whose voice drawls around words that used to be his, green eyes most of the time cast down or lost on the crowd of fans, empty or carrying a deep, heart-crushing sadness that makes Zayn’s own heart throb, masochist tears wetting his burning face.

 

He hurt Harry; he hurt the most precious person in the world for him, because he had to love him to the point of getting sick.

 

_cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough_

 

Little Things grows into a nightmare; he hears Harry singing together with the fans, full of harmony and the song, previously a cheesy declaration of love, a painful reminder to all of his absence, the gap between Niall and Harry enough to fit one ocean of tears. Their live performances are still great, but he can’t help feel like there’s something missing.

 

Can’t help but feel like he should be there, looking after his clumsy members, grabbing them before a fall or helping them when it was inevitable for them to meet the ground gracelessly, specially Harry, with his too long limbs and overexcitement that more than thrice made his butt have a meet with the stage. Oh, just to think about his accidents make Zayn’s head hurt; he remembers one concert where Harry walked straight to one of those weird fire spitting devices, and that if it wasn’t for him, the Holmes-Chapel boy could have hurt himself badly.

 

After the shows he used to sit behind the taller boy, rubbing his back soothingly and rolling his eyes at silly jokes told by a lazy yet sensuous rough voice, so different from Harry’s first impression, a too-happy, dumb puppy. If there was a fall, a more common occurrence than he ever felt content with, Zayn would let him sleep against his chest after preparing a warm drink, scolding him lightly but blissful at the innocent contact, wishing for more and knowing the improbability of it.

 

On the band’s early days, right after the X-Factor, Zayn would feel weird out by the painful pang in his chest when Harry left his arms, and the non-recognition of his feelings back then held him firm – not quite – for nearly five years.

 

Zayn remembers when he realized what he feels for Harry wasn’t simply camaraderie, friendly love or brotherly love; it wasn’t an epiphany, an out of nowhere acknowledgment, but an inner discovery, a pot of gold that was hiding under his nose all along. Both were sharing a hotel room, and for some reason, Harry decided to sleep on his bed, wrapping his arms and legs around Zayn like the freaking octopus he was.

 

As he stared at the younger boy’s sleeping face, so white if compared with his, eyelashes big and spaced, pretty nose and plush lips slightly open as he breathed deeply, relaxed and innocent like a child with no worries.

 

**_Allah help me, I’m in love with him._ **

 

_cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough_

 

It has become a habit by now, but Zayn likes to collect the sunflower’s petals and put them as to form one whole flower, bright and beautiful, fitting like pieces of a big puzzle. He places them all over his room, trying to transform the Hanahaki into something praiseworthy and not just a signal of his decaying body – dry of tears, too tired to feel far beyond heartbreak, unable to do simple things – and somehow, a time-counter. They come more frequently and numerously, he isn’t capable of swallowing them to hide.

 

So it doesn’t come as a surprise when fans see him collapsed on the street, painting the dirty gray asphalt red-covered yellow.

 

_cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough cough_

 

 

**sunflower (finality)**

 

 

 

His head aches and he’s worse than normal, world spinning and hazy, his eyes can’t focus on one point without a painful throbbing making its presence known; yet, his phone won’t stop ringing.

 

People from magazines, health and celebrity gossip programs are jumping at each other’s neck, fighting the right to be the first to get an interview with Zayn Malik, ex-One Direction member and a Hanahaki Disease carrier.

 

Lou is frantic; she calls him every day thrice a day, desperate for some news and wanting to apologize for not doing anything when she clearly saw his condition waning show by show, interview by interview. Paul too, the bodyguard/father figure is more discreet about his concern and guilt, but the texts he sends each day prove he worries just as much.

 

4/5 of One Direction? Oh…

 

The four of them call non-stop, texts overflowing his phone; his Twitter is full of theirs and fans’ posts, apologies mixing with questions and begging and _would you please open the door? I want to talk’_ s in a cacophony of digitalized words, messing with his lethargic mind, which struggles to try and grasp requests and organize them.

 

Someone’s banging on the door, strongly so he thinks this someone will break it; he gets up slowly – it hurts more than normally today, the roots squeeze tighter, the petals are everywhere, red, not yellow – and stumbles, heading for the door. It is Harry? Surely the beautiful rough voice can only belong to him, but why it sounds so strange? Like a filter, distorting _Zee, are you there?! Please open the door! Zayn!_

 

He’s falling, bones cracking above the cold floor.

 

Zayn hears a loud bang. The last thing he sees are red petals tumbling out of his mouth and a pair of desperate, wet green eyes.

 

**… Cough.**

 

 

**petal (overdue)**

 

 

For once, he’s surrounded by white. Walls, bed sheets, clothes and curtains, the entirety of this room is white, pure and immaculate.

 

His nose prickles, and as he touches it, Zayn feels a tube, thick and feeding him oxygen. His mouth is strangely wet, muddy with earth and blood. He can’t open his eyes completely, eyelids sticking together wetly.

 

Like music, he can hear cries. Loud sobs typical of Liam when he’s truly sad about something, and it doesn’t sound right, because Liam is Liam and he doesn’t cry like there’s no reason left to fight.

 

Niall’s sobs are quieter, but no less heartbreaking. Through his blurry vision, Zayn can see him being held by a larger figure – Liam’s, probably, ever Daddy Direction – hands clutching the shirt’s material so hard it seems ready to torn.

 

Louis, never one to show weakness, lets the tears fall silently, back slightly turned to him. He from time to time wipes them on his shirt, cursing and apologizing and asking _why are you so fucking stupid, Malik?_

 

Harry runs his hands across his hair, a caress that an eternity ago occurred the other way around, Zayn’s tan hands detangling the knots made by curls. His tears fall on Zayn’s forehead, scurrying along his cheekbones to land on the white pillow behind his head, and he looks somehow detached, an illusion made by Zayn’s exhausted mind.

 

“ _I’m sorry boys, but there’s no way to remove the roots. In fact, I’m surprised Mr. Malik survived for so long, considering their extent in his lungs”_

 

The voice is foreign, but it’s a memory.

 

So, it’s finally time.

 

Rising a trembling hand, Zayn touches Harry’s face softly, committing all the dips and beauty marks and imperfections – too separate eyes, a side of his lip fuller than the other – to his mind, knowing this is the last time he’ll ever have this chance. The skin is wet and feverish beneath his fingers, and Harry’s eyes are dulled with the amount of tears he sheds.

 

Zayn will miss this; the young face expressing true feeling with no hesitation, an open book to everyone who knew how to read. He’ll miss the sunny days of eating junk food and playing video games, the cold ones in bars drinking and laughing together; the cuddles after the shows, the dynamic during those, the playful banter and the pranks. He’ll miss the honest smiles, the shinning eyes and the large warm hands.

 

He’ll miss what he never had; morning kisses under the sheets and burnt breakfasts because of snogging sessions; marathons of films who’d end with moans and loving, caring lovemaking or maybe fast, urgent shagging. Zayn will miss the whispered declarations of love he never had.

 

**_…C-Cough…_ **

 

The single sunflower petal is red, not as beautiful as the yellow ones that decorate his house.

 

His eyes close, and don’t open. The pain is over.

 

Zayn misses Harry anguished scream, followed by a pair of wet – by tears – lips over his still warm ones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_One day later, Harry Styles coughs the pink petals of a gladiolus._

**Author's Note:**

> Please tell me what you thought about this... thing...


End file.
